


Urgent Care - No Appointment Required

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Blow Jobs, First Time, Injured Sherlock, John is a Very Good Doctor, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Medical, Mention of drug use history, Phlebotomy, Safer Sex, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock is a menace, Slow Burn, Suturing, Thrill of the Chase, Top Sherlock, john is not much better, venipuncture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5403842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's therapist has advised him to seize the day.  I don't think this is exactly what she had in mind when she said that.</p><p>Newly hired physician John Watson meets an injured Sherlock in a walk-in clinic when he is unwillingly brought in by DI Lestrade with a facial wound.  And the game is definitely on!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Carpe Diem!

**Author's Note:**

> So what if Mike Stamford found John Watson in the park and referred him for a job instead of as a potential flatmate? Perhaps the first meeting of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes might have gone something like this instead!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. John Watson gets hired for a newly opening Urgent Care Clinic. His first patient - an out-of-sorts, feisty, and irritable man in need of the services of a personal physician. *ahem*

"Dr. Stamford?  We need help right away, this patient is seizuring and the patient's mother is having a different kind of fit."

Mike rose, looked apologetically at the newly hired Dr. John Watson.  "I'd invite you, but this... let's just say she's very difficult.  I'll be right back."

John had stood briefly, too, nodded silently as Mike left the room closely behind the nurse who had summoned him.  Leaning back in the desk chair, he glanced around at the newly opening Urgent Care clinic for which Mike had just yesterday offered him the job.  Today was the formality of paperwork, brief computer orientation, and a chance to tour the facilities.  The waiting area was small, sparsely decorated, clean, and smelled of new vinyl furniture.  There was a small box of a few repurposed but clean children's toys and books, an end table with uncrinkled magazines less than three months old, and a wall-mounted, flat screen TV not even plugged in with the cable input coiled up on top.  A triage desk with opposing chairs stood waiting, John in one as he completed the employment contract Mike had given him.  

It had been an opportune meet-up in the park a few days previously, the two friends from med school bumping into each other randomly.  John had just left his weekly appointment with Ella, his therapist, who hassled him to find something constructive to do even as she said she wasn't hassling him.  He was growing more and more frustrated with therapy and with himself and with his blasted bloody limp.  His shoulder had healed up much quicker, the physical wound scabbing, scarring, and itching as opposed to his leg, which showed no scar, just burning, tingling nerve  _pain_ all the way into the knee joint.  Mike had quickly cut to the chase after finding out John was unemployed, handing him a business card and demanding that he apply for the job.

The surgery Mike ran was a freestanding, appointment-only, thriving practice that was embracing the possibility of adding a walk-in urgent care clinic, mostly due to the recently vacated business next door folding suddenly and the landlord approaching Mike.  The clinic would share parking, and be connected through a waiting area, but hire its own receptionist, nurse, and physician.  Mike wanted John to take one of the three part time slots, the only spot remaining, and mostly interviewed him as a formality.  The clinic would open its doors tomorrow, so the closed sign still hung in the window to the street today, but they had been moving in and out of the connecting waiting room getting supplies set up and equipment in place.

John stood in the doorway, his back facing the clinic, paperwork completed, listening to the voices from within the depths of the surgery.  Most of the staff's attention was directed at the ruckus occurring, and when the surgery doors opened to admit two men, also somewhat fussing at each other, John watched them.  One was clutching a blood-stained cloth to his cheekbone, and John was the only one who noticed.

"Need some help here," the gray haired man said.  John identified him quickly on sight as a weapon-carrying member of the NSY, plain-clothed, and as he approached John with the taller man in tow, John could see both badge and radio clipped to his belt in the gap of his jacket.  Bringing a criminal in, perhaps? John wondered as he stood back from the doorway, which apparently was taken as an invitation to enter.

"I don't need this," the taller man groused, and John grabbed gloves from the holder on the wall, then gestured to the seat by the desk.  To John he simply said, "No."

The gray haired man, bossy and thoroughly aggravated, gave him a not-gentle guiding shove toward the chair.  " _Sit._ "

There was a moment then, when John and the officer both stared at the injured man, tension high, and waited for compliance.  With every nuance of his body language screaming that he bloody well did not want to do so, the man sat down, scowling at the room in general.  John stood next to him, waiting for something along the lines of permission to treat, and Sherlock turned most of his glare at John.  

"I might as well at least look at it while you're here."  John had not yet touched the patient, who was more and more reminding John of the stubborn toddlers he used to treat in his residency from time to time.  He shot a glance at the gray haired man.  "I'm Dr. John Watson."

"Greg Lestrade," the man said, and he was about to continue when his radio squawked, and he answered crisply, "Lestrade," and as the staticky voice came through, he apologised then stepped through the other door and then outside to the kerb to be less disruptive.

John turned back to the man in the chair.  He was not specifically going to engage in this obviously conflict-ridden situation.  "Well?" he said.  The patient huffed out a prickly sigh, his mouth turning into a downward display of disgust.  Long legs in expensive trousers folded into the chair and John identified excellent and _flattering_ tailoring and Italian leather shoes.  Not poor by any stretch.  No handcuffs, probably not the criminal, then.  There was the slightest hint of a pleasant aftershave coming from the man in the chair, likely mixing with the sweat-tinged air of whatever exertion had led to this, that was fully male, and arousing as John's cells took notice of the magnetism in his close proximity.

 _"Carpe diem, John.  Find something to do that you are passionate about,"_ Ella's words came back, then, and John looked into the depths of the most intriguing face he'd seen in quite a while.  Seize the day, yeah?  Something you're passionate about.   _Someone, perhaps?_

The eyes that John found boring into his own were unusually blue-gray-green, and intense.  A large sighing breath preceeded the lowering of the bloody cloth, but the eyes stayed fixed on John's face as John visually inspected the wound.  

"Wrong end of a knife blade, eh?"  John reached behind him, located gauze dressings and sterile saline that had been carefully placed on the shelf easily accessible from the triage desk (along with bandaids, ice packs, thermometers, emesis bags, and emergency resuscitation equipment) and turned back to the man.  John chose his words, "Got a name, soldier?"

At the label, they met eyes again, and John could feel the smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, he couldn't help it, and the smile was very much reciprocated.  "Soldier?" the voice came back, a honeyed baritone, also sparkling with amusement.  John felt a warmth suffuse deep in his chest, spreading out in tingling sensations, settling in his pelvis.  John's expression was almost daring him to comment and the injured, slightly offended, was now poised to interact.  As expected.  "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan."  John hesitated a few centimeters away from the man's skin, still awaiting permission.  Once the man nodded, John wet the gauze, cleaned the edges, his eyes focused on the gash as he evaluated depth and bleeding.  "How did you know?"

"Oh, please.  You scream it.  Everything.  Your bearing, cane, tan line, haircut, military stance.   _Obvious_."  He drew in a short breath as John slid the skin apart then back together.  There was chemistry a-foot, electromagnetic sensations, an aura, a sensation of heat emanating between them.  John could compartmentalise rather well, but could certainly take in visually the appeal of the form in front of him without staring.  

John's hands were strong and confident as he eased up from the split edges of skin.  "Sorry.  Needs a good clean out and suturing."

They both looked up as sirens grew closer and then came to a halt in front of the clinic.  Both of them paused as they listened to the events unfolding in the next room.  One of the nurses met the medics in the waiting room and directed them toward where Mike was obviously tending to the patient.  While the crew maneuvered down the hallway, the nurse poked her head into the clinic waiting room.  "Mike wanted me to tell you he's going with the patient to the A&E, and that he'd see you tomorrow at ten."

John smiled at the information.  "Great, thanks for the message, and yes, I'll be here then."  The nurse closed the door part way, just to block out the amount of noise that was being generated from the activity in the surgery.

"Dermabond."  John's eyes flicked to the man's as he issued a demand.

"Of course not."  Turning, John reached for more saline moistened gauze.

" _Dermabond_ ," he said again.

"I'm not putting bloody glue on your face."  When the defiant stare just stuck there looking back at him, John continued.  "It'll scar, uneven edges, it's a mobile piece of your cheekbone.  And it's not recommended in lacerations like yours."  John felt eyes blazing, and it was much more than simple confrontation on a plan of care, it was pushing boundaries and foreplay and testing the waters to see exactly how a person reacts.  And it was bloody _thrilling_.  "It would be irresponsible to use dermabond when there are sutures and expertise available."

"I could leave and find someone who will do it."  He moved as if he was going to do just that.

At that point, Lestrade had re-entered the room, and actually laughed out loud at that.  "Sit down, Sherlock, relax, get your bloody face fixed."  There was a visual standoff between the two of them, next, and John watched their obvious banter of a friendship, with the slightest unwelcome flare of jealousy that he squelched.  Greg then snorted in understanding, "Is it the needle thing again?"  John saw color flush Sherlock's face and throat.  Interesting detail.  He glanced between Sherlock and Lestrade, who chuckled at the silence in the room.  Finally, Greg threw his hands up in the air in frustration, saying to John, "He hates needles unless they're full of illegal substances and he's the one holding them."

John disliked the exclusion and the drug use reference.  He didn't care that they knew something he didn't, but he felt obligated as a provider to address not only the suture needs but other concerns as well.  "You should leave the needles to the professionals, _Sherlock._ "  John touched at the dress shirt sleeve hem that had been cuffed at the elbow on the man's non-dominant left arm, and slid it proximally up his arm to reveal the antecubital area.  There was nothing recent, not at all, but the skin of his arm showed some very tiny and very healed, old white scars over both the basilic and median cubital veins.  John brushed a thumb over them, leaving a trail of heat behind and feeling the pleasure of warm skin even through the glove, despite of the reason for the touch.  "Ok, so nothing recent.  Unless this," he said, gesturing at the facial damage, "was a drug deal gone bad."  He stood up then, having had enough of the vacillation and the obvious relationship he knew nothing about, in front of him.  Not that it was any of his business, anyway.  "Decide now, and we can step down the hall to fix this, or you are free to leave."

Greg Lestrade assumed a no-nonsense demeanor then, and when he went to speak, Sherlock stopped him with a curt, "Shut up, _Geoff_."  They shared a glare, then, and Greg strode to the doorway, muttering something about being 'done'.  "You are definitely dismissed."  To John, with a purse of disgust on his lips, he said, "Fine."  His mannerisms softened then, gentling, and he said with a low-toned intimate voice, "But you better be bloody fantastic at this."

John felt a thrill of excitement, not so much from the medical aspect of treating patients, which he did absolutely thrive on, but on the remarkably warmer pheromone-riddled climate of the room now that it was just the two of them.  It had been a while since he'd felt that immediate attraction, desire, and the sensual pull of another bloke so quickly after a first meeting.  "Of course I'm fantastic."  He let the words, doubly intended, and the smile soothe the other man's frazzled behaviour, and nodded his head toward the doorway to the clinic treatment rooms.  "Follow me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for some adventures in the clinic and beyond.
> 
> Carpe Diem, my friends! "Seize the day!"
> 
> Comments - kudos - always greatly appreciated and anticipated. Any thoughts where you would like this story to go? The outline is completely finished, but I am always up for a bit of an editing excursion along the way!
> 
> Please let me know if I missed something, and thanks for reading!


	2. Up Close and Personal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From sutures in the clinic to the doorway - foreplay!

"Any allergies to any medications?" John asked.  "Any health history I should know about before we begin?"  John led the way into the room, gestured to the exam table, while Sherlock answered no to both questions.  At his hesitation in the room, John said only, "Up you go," and waited for his patient to comply.  John could see very distinctly when the inner battle in Sherlock's mind decided not to argue.  "Not a fan of following directions, I see.  That's helpful to know."

"When it suits me, I have no problem with taking orders."  The breathy tone of voice left little doubt as to what Sherlock was implying, and the expression that followed made John's mouth slightly dry.  He chose to resume control of this encounter rather than allow his mind to wander where Sherlock was trying to lead him, which started in his mind with giving directions at removal of clothing, and went further from there.  As gently as he could, he irrigated the wound, with Sherlock holding the basin under his cheek.  John dried the edges with gauze and turned on the swing-armed procedure lamp.

After John gestured, Sherlock settled onto his side, and John watched him discretely as he inhaled, exhaled, relaxed his shoulders, and tried not to let any nervousness show.  John laid out supplies, donned sterile gloves, and perched on a wheeled stool as he drew up the local anaesthetic.  Their closeness, with faces not far apart at all, along with John's hands creating and working a close up sterile field, was rather intimate.  

"You can close your eyes if you'd rather."  He held the syringe mostly out of Sherlock's line of sight, steadying his hand warmly against Sherlock's face.  "Open is fine, of course, but I'm working right here in your face."  John met Sherlock's eye again briefly, then shrugged.  "Bit of a sting and some burning, just the anaesthetic."  A few infiltrations then of lidocaine with epinephrine went in easily, the edges of the wound blanching as anticipated to fully stop the bleeding as well as temporarily deaden the nerves.  John was pleased that the area numbed up well, and he opened a suture pack.  While drying the wound edge one final time, he saw the faint crinkle of discomfort at the edge of Sherlock's right eye and paused.  "Do you need a minute?"

"No, get on with it."  His voice was tight and low, and, John, looking to ease the discomfort if possible, hesitated a few seconds, then started talking.  He'd grown accustomed to utilising small talk when treating men and women in Afghanistan, bringing up mindless but distracting topics.  He heard his own voice start on a few war stories, reminiscing about unusual locations he'd placed sutures, both in affected area of the body as well as where he physically may have been, and the more strange reasons or discoveries he'd found in deep lacerations.  As he felt Sherlock relax more fully, he worked more silently.  Blue eyes watched him, never wavering, and the impact of the gaze was strong as John focused solely on the wound and not the proximity of their bodies to the other, nor on the heat radiating between them, nor on the trusting intensity of Sherlock's stare.  When he made eye contact, it was only briefly to determine how he was doing as John worked.

If Sherlock had a comment about John's technique, he held his tongue.  The wound closed cleanly with nine sutures, all snipped close, the blue strings poking evenly in a downward direction.  It had been a number of months since John had placed sutures, but his steady hands had retained their muscle memory and his skill was adeptly recalled.  A sterile gauze cleaned it up nicely, and John looked carefully, inspecting skin approximation at the wound edges.

"It's arrogant to admire your own handiwork," Sherlock said testily, still watching intently with those blue-green-gray eyes.

"Maybe I just appreciate quality."  John narrowed a glare at not only his new suture line but along Sherlock's whole recumbent form as he stripped off his gloves and pushed away from the bedside.  "It's also arrogant to deliberately call your partner the wrong name," John came back at him, cheekily.

"Not my _partner_.  Barely a working arrangement, he calls for my assistance when he's out of his league, which is often."  The amused expression was back.  "You could have just asked me."

"What, and miss out on trading insults with you?"

"You may not want to start that war with me," Sherlock cautioned as he pushed to a sitting position with John's arm extended to assist if needed.

"Why's that?"

"I have been called a high-functioning sociopath."

"You don't frighten me.  And even if that were true, it probably wouldn't frighten me."  John rolled the suture cart back against the wall, took a few packets of antibiotic ointment, opened one to apply it to the freshly sutured face with a gloved fingertip, and then handing the others out for Sherlock to take.  When he didn't, John smirked, knowing exactly what he was about, and so he slid them directly into his shirt pocket, being careful to ensure the packets and the back of John's fingers brushed closely up against the fabric-close skin.  He felt a twinge of pleasure when Sherlock's inhale happened sharply and he minutely, and reflexively, arched into the touch.

"Better watch that, I'm sure the clinic director wouldn't care for you behaving inappropriately with a patient."

"I don't actually work here."

"Yes you do.  The paperwork in the file had obviously already been signed, by you.  An employee, then."

"Start date is tomorrow.  The clinic isn't even _officially_ open today."  John snickered then at Sherlock's expression.  "So technically, you're not an official patient, either, without any actual documentation.  Looks like my first office visit was a freebie, unless you want to complete the paperwork."

"It might be of benefit."  Sherlock watched John, carefully, his eyes intense as he waited for John to figure out what he might be referring to.

 John pondered a bit, then shrugged.  "Enlighten me?"

"No, I don't think I will just yet."

Shrugging, John steeled himself not be be arsed.  "Okay.  Are you current on your tetanus jab?"

"Of course.  This is hardly my first injury in the line of an investigation, and they are seldom clean scrapes."

There was a predatory gleam in Sherlock's eye, and John felt like he was a mouse in danger of a fatal cat-pouncing.  "These should be removed in four or five days.  You can contact your primary physician or come back here to see the nurse for removal."

"I think I'd prefer to see _you_ for that."  The statement warmed John's chest as it lingered, and he was pleased at the thought of further contact.

"Do you always get what you want?"

"I tend to.  It gets very unpleasant when I am denied."  John's eyebrow raised then, and he continued, "We could have one hell of an office visit then.  Perhaps send off a few blood tests now, and it has the potential to get very interesting indeed."

Understanding dawned.  "Ah, yes, _that's_ the paperwork you referred to."  The heated look that passed between them, then, made John reconsider where exactly he was.  "But not in the office."

"Indeed."  And Sherlock rolled up a sleeve there, seated in the treatment room while John found the laboratory slip from the wall rack, checked off a few things as Sherlock watched.  "Feel free to add whatever substance panel you would like, too, if you're curious.  But I'm clean.  And I have been for many months, now."

John looked up, his eyes meeting Sherlock's intently for a few moments, then flicked down to the form, checked off the drug abuse panel.  "Sherlock," he said, filling out the patient information across the header of the paper and then requesting full name and date of birth, which Sherlock supplied.  "Unusual name," he offered as he counted off the appropriate number and color of tubes.  Then, rather entertained, John asked, "You want to draw your own?"

An excited smile and a shiver of pleasure was almost palpable in the room as Sherlock breathed out gruffly, "Yes, of course I do."

John set out tourniquet, vacutainer, alcohol swab, gauze, and tubes then watched as he deftly applied his apparent experience to more productive, not to mention legal, use.  The stick was clean, with the only fiddly moment being when swapping out tubes, which John was hovering in the foreground to help with that, having anticipated the need.  The grateful gaze Sherlock bestowed on him was complex, one of not just gratitude but celebratory of the accomplishment.  And perhaps, the thrill of being co-conspirators.

Once the task was completed, John set the biohazard bag of lab tubes aside, complimented Sherlock on his technique, and said if he ever wanted a side job that the clinic could probably use a phlebotomist from time to time.  It was flatly declined.  "Too many orders to follow," he said lightly with a sparkle in his eye.  "But thanks for your help with the tubes," he added.

"No problem."  John grinned with a bit of collusion.  "I needed help with mine earlier today, swapping them out seems to require two hands."

"You drew your own, as well?"

"Of course.  Except I used my non-dominant hand, for the extra challenge."  Feeling the victor in that particular round, John contentedly checked the time.  "Pick-up's shortly, I'll get this out for the courier, then."  He left the room, and Sherlock watched him go and then followed, stopping in the still vacant waiting room.

Sherlock was idly running a long finger on the edge of the file containing John's employment application when he returned to the walk-in clinic waiting room, until John cleared his throat.  "If you're curious, you could just ask me."

"Ok.  How long until the test results are completed?"

"In a rush, are you?"

"Perhaps."  His eyes strayed a bit south, and he licked his lips as he admired.  "It's been a long time."

"Couple of hours, and I'll be able to view them electronically, I can connect by computer into the hospital lab."  John looked again at Sherlock's sutures, his fingertips touching the angle of the man's jaw as he turned his head manually.  Swallowing hard, he then took his application file from the desk, set it in Mike's inbox hanging on the wall.  "I think that's it here for today, unless you have any other injuries that need to be evaluated?"

The gaze that Sherlock leveled at John could only be viewed as an eye-fuck.  It was an invitation, a challenge, a dare, and an _oh-god-please_ all rolled into a very charged stare.  "If that was a pick-up line, it was absolutely terrible."

"I was giving you opportunity to tell me you have been suffering from a groin pull, or to request transdermal nicotine because you should  _definitely_ quit smoking."

"I have no comment about the superb condition of all components of my groin.  And I think you're guessing about the nicotine patch.  Because I haven't had a cigarette today yet and I know for sure I carry no cigarette smell on me."

" _Educated_ guess.  Very dark blood sample.  And from the way your fingers maneuvered the lab tubes.  But yes, a guess."  John reached for his jacket after flipping off the light.  "Then we are done here."

"Oh, we may be done _here_ , but we are far from done."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would be quicker at the next chapter if I learned to multi-task better, particularly at the holidays. And of course, tomorrow is The Abominable Bride and I have never been part of a fandom with a release like this. I almost feel like I could use a visit to an Urgent Clinic myself! "Excuse me, Dr. Watson, can I see you for a moment?"
> 
> Please let me know if I missed something...


	3. John Comes to Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John makes some interesting discoveries at Baker Street. And so does Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John has taken a job at a newly opening Urgent Care clinic, where Sherlock's facial wound has been skillfully sutured. There has been serious flirting involved, and the _game_ is definitely afoot!

They stood in the waiting room as Sherlock's statement lingered.   _We are far from done._

John didn't disagree, and after a clumsy moment asked, "Are you supposed to get back in touch with Greg?"

"Probably.  And I will, eventually."  He gestured dismissively, then a small smile appeared, a crooked and charming half-grin.  "And just so you know, your therapist would commend you on not needing your cane for the last hour."  It was still leaning, unused, a forgotten afterthought abandoned in the corner of the urgent care waiting room.  John contemplated reaching for it until Sherlock muttered, "Leave it.  You don't need it."

"Hmm.  How'd you know about the therapist?  Educated _guess_?"  His therapist's words were still resonating in John's thoughts, _find something to do_ that he was passionate about, and the smile that flickered across Sherlock's face was arrogantly omniscient.

"I never guess.  It's not quite as obvious as the military history, but close."  

Sherlock watched John grab the cane despite the statement that it was unneeded, and they crossed the waiting room into the surgery, with John raising a hand in farewell to the receptionist as they left.  Standing at the door, and holding it open, John waited for Sherlock to step through.  There was a slightly nervous, excited thrum pounding in John's chest as they paused on the kerb.  "I should tell you, I'm looking for a flatmate, John.  Perhaps you might be interested?"

"That might be rushing things a bit."  Thinking him jesting, he continued, "You hardly know me."

"True.  Could be dangerous for both of us."

"I don't usually run away from danger."

"Yes, but this is not typical for you.  You're not reckless by nature."

John considered the truth of that statement.  "Let's just say I've been recently challenged to enjoy life a bit more."

"Ah, right, by your _therapist_.  Is that your only request, your only condition, that it be _enjoyable_?"

"What exactly are you referring to?"  John found the excitement delicious and risky and exhilarating.  "Because, yes, I might be interested."  There were raised brows and smiles and the pheromonic exchange of intent passing between them.

The verbal as well as chemical foreplay between them, was solidly growing, crafting a connection that threatened combustion right there by the street.  There really hadn't even been any physical interaction yet other than clinical.  John could feel his skin tingling as the breeze picked up and Sherlock turned so the wind was behind him.  The breeze lifted a few chestnut curls as it blew, and John pulled out his own scarf, wrapped it snug even as he saw Sherlock pull on gloves and turn his collar up against the wind.  Hopefully, John considered, the sutures were still numb and not feeling the biting effect of the London wind.

His voice in John's ear was honey-smooth, baritone, and traced a prickly, resonant trail from John's ear straight to his zipper.  "My flat is only a few blocks away."

"Chemist, then, on the way.  Unless you already have...?"

Amused, Sherlock stared at John in the moments after his question trailed off.  "You know there is no appropriate response for me to make to that.  I wouldn't want to confess to having a large supply in my flat, nor would I want to come across that I have nothing and am unprepared."

"Maybe I was fishing."  John let the grin show, then. "Which answer is the truth?"

"Not telling.  You're welcome to assume whichever you'd like."

"You have a drawer full next to the bed, next to the handcuffs?"  John watched for any reaction, but Sherlock did not give him the satisfaction of a big change in expression, except for a slight smirk at the corner of his mouth.  John continued, "So, a stop at a chemists, yeah?"

"Probably a good idea."

"Safe answer," John said with good-natured approval.  He let his eyes roam, enjoying the lines of the body hinted at from under the long coat, handsome, muscled, lean features.  He was anxious to see it again as well as to touch, liberally.  "So are you looking for a flatmate for real, or is that a terrible excuse for a pick up line as well?"

Sherlock's shrug of the shoulders and gleam in his eye didn't really answer John's question, but the sound of his laughter was sweetness personified, and John anticipated a lively afternoon in some rather good, and definitely entertaining, engaging company.

A few minutes, in short order, they found themselves at the door of the chemists, and John stepped up.  "Wait here, it'll be less awkward than if both of us go in with this sense of ... anticipation."  While Sherlock obviously wanted to protest, he considered the wisdom of John's words, and, nodding, pulled out his mobile as he leaned against the sheltered alcove outside of the building, away from the wind, to wait.  John returned, small bag in hand, and a few minutes later Sherlock's steps slowed outside a quaint, meek, well-maintained building.

"We could wait a few hours for test results," John said then, the bag heavy in his hand and impatience making his heart pound with the craziness of what they were both dancing around.  "Although, even if everything's negative," he said, "we should discuss your behaviour of the last sixty days."

"It's been longer than that.  Abstinent and clean."  Sherlock's gaze drew sharply to him.  "You're stalling.  Second thoughts."  He leaned in closer there on the kerb, his face close enough to John's that their breath mingled together, and was warmly brushing the others skin.  "I thought you said you don't run away from danger."

A fullness blazed within John as he cocked his head a bit, feeling more confident than he had a right to, and he chuckled outright.  "Sometimes there is wisdom in running away from danger.  It could have prevented a knife wound to the face, yeah?" John raised an eyebrow as Sherlock shrugged helplessly.  "Actually, no, I'm just thinking it might be very nice to not need protection, you know."

"I think I'm insulted that you're already not planning on a second round once test results are back.  There are other ways..." he smiled then.  " _Oh_.  This is a warning about your lack of stamina."

"Hardly," John snorted in answer.  He'd earned the nickname Three Continents Watson in the army, for his somewhat exaggerated conquests in a variety of settings, but that seemed a lifetime ago.   _Seize the day, indeed_.

 Nodding toward the next building, Sherlock told him, "My flat is above the cafe."

"Convenient."

"It could be for you too."

"You do have a point there," John told him as they crossed the threshold and Sherlock held up a cautionary few fingers.

"Landlady," he said quietly, tilting his head to indicate the rather loud Sounds of a television coming through the entryway of the first floor flat.  When it became obvious that she was engrossed, they paused a moment at the bottom of the stairwell, and John reached out a strong hand, held Sherlock's arm.  The stairway had little appeal to John, but his impatience for touching was driving his brain at the moment, so they hesitated long enough there for him to draw his hand behind Sherlock's neck and drag him downward, insistent lips connecting for a snog.  Sherlock's sharp inhale as he submitted just briefly to it let John know that there was very definitely a power struggle in the works.  Everything about Sherlock's body language from the set of his shoulders to the coat spreading to the flare of his nostrils, let John know that Sherlock was considering the merits of pushing John up against the wall.   John wanted no parts of that at the present, so he resisted enough to convey the message.  Solidly, he stood his ground, leaning into the strong fingers splayed against his lapel.  Their eye contact met, held, the excitement building, the thrill of the challenge and the chase, of the hunt and being hunted.  Of that fine line between dominance and surrender.

John backed slightly away even as Sherlock, whose height advantage was carefully offset by John's compact strength, leaned in.  The raised eyebrow John levered at Sherlock was enough to halt him momentarily.  "I'm actually more in the mood to _give_ orders, since I know you love _that_ so much."

"I'm in the mood to defy them, then.  Nothing would give me more pleasure."  He pulled at the opening of John's coat, drew him closer, smashed his lips against Johns with tongue and teeth scraping.  " _Nothing_."  John gave the slightest shove away, chests heaving, eyes dilated, pulses pounding.

Their eyes met, breaths escalated, hearts hammering, and John quickly closed the gap again, pressing both lips, hands, and groins together.  It was every bit as satisfying as he'd hoped, and every bit as frustrating as having dessert whisked out from under ones nose if they were starving.

"First floor?"

"Seventeen steps."  There was a laugh then as Sherlock's hand brushed the front of John's zip, pressing hard into his swollen erection, which grew under Sherlock's firm touch.  "Hmm, _impressive_."  His fingers trailed the length of John's penis under the clothing, the shape throbbing.

"Oh God," John breathed as a fingertip slid the path of his zipper, settling inside his waistband.  He let a warm, confident hand stray down Sherlock's trim body and settle over his shaft.

"Yes. Let's."

"I know," John agreed, as his eyes darkened watching Sherlock remove the key from his pocket.  He turned the knob, entered, pulling John behind him.  The door closed with a muted, resounding click.  There were mouths then seeking, no preamble, no additional foreplay needed, and John grabbed a handful of Sherlock's trousers, yanked.  Sherlock's hand reached around John, pulling snugly at the top of his thigh, grabbing and grinding their bodies against each other.

"The bedroom is...?"  John looked around briefly, noting a few boxes in a flat suffused by warm wood tones, soft lighting, some eclectic knick-knacks, and the magnetism of a tall man with curious hands and eyes.

"Too far away," Sherlock breathed.

"God, yes, here's good."  John let his coat fall from his arms as he sank to his knees on the floor.  Haphazardly, quickly, he opened the box of condoms, took one, the debris and the remainder of the bag scattering on the floor in his haste.  His hands deftly drew open Sherlock's trousers and then lowered them along with the pants until Sherlock's prick sprang free and erect.  Pausing a moment, he looked upward into the face of the now quiet man watching him, and he rolled a condom on, followed it quickly with the heat of his mouth.

A growl of contentment and pleasure arose then from somewhere beneath Sherlock's chest, rumbling in the body standing still.  His feet were planted as far as they could be given the confines of his clothing, and his hand came up to twine into the soft light brown hair behind John's ear.  As pressure behind John's head grew, he tossed his head lightly to shake off the hand, and when it was ignored, he pulled away to free up his mouth.

"No hands," at which point Sherlock reached out slowly and deliberately with his other hand, both of them now lightly holding John's head still.  Eye contact ensued, and the defiant look on Sherlock's face was coupled with feisty amusement.

"I rather like them where they are," he offered, spreading his fingers out warmly around the back and sides of John's head and into his hair, and eased the tip of his erection back toward John's face.

Quick as a snap, John whipped both hands up to grasp Sherlock's wrists in a smooth movement, and he came up slowly from his knees while gripping Sherlock's hands away from his head.  "I don't think so," he said in low, menacing tones.  Grabbing the shirtsleeve of one of Sherlock's arms, he caught Sherlock's thumb in that same hand and held both cuff and digit fast and off to one side as he retook his position on one knee in front of Sherlock.  His mouth opened again, and it seemed only a few moments of sliding moistness until Sherlock's groan turned deep and his scrotum contracted tightly before pulsations began, spilling inside the condom as John held him firm at his groin and within his mouth.

Sherlock's expression was one of rapt bliss for a bit, and once he opened his eyes fully, he found John's gaze watching him steadily.  He reached out long fingers to tuck them inside John's belt.  The second hand slid along John's trousers and guided John back into a standing position, while stroking firmly and with serious intent.  The friction, while pleasurable and building, was not particularly what John had envisioned.

"No."

"What do you mean, no?'

"I'm not a huge fan of coming in my pants, thanks anyway, and I don't exactly have a change of clothes."  

"Remedy that and move in."  Sherlock reached for John's belt, zipper, and in a few easy movements had divested John's pelvis of clothing.  His mouth opened and he swallowed John's cock before John realised what he was planning.

"God, Sherlock, _no_.   _Condom_."

In answer, Sherlock applied more suction and picked up the pace of his movements.  The wet heat and skillful tongue ministrations had John moaning almost immediately, and he looked down with some distress at Sherlock as he force-ably pulled out.  "Don't care," Sherlock said, looking distressed as if he'd been a toddler deprived of his favourite toy.

"You should," John hissed at him.  His penis throbbed with exquisite heat, having been so close on the edge of orgasm.  A few thrusts would have been all he'd have ... _No._ Sherlock moved his head toward John again, mouth open but John quickly brought up the heel of his hand and pressed it against Sherlock's forehead in counter-pressure.  "Get off a moment."  There was a stand-off then, and John pushed his head to a slight angle.  "And watch out for those sutures, you daft idiot."

"They're fine, and no, I don't want to back off," he said, bringing his face into the wiry hair at John's groin.

"I swear you're a bloody pain in the arse."  John crouched then, backing away from Sherlock's insistent head as Sherlock reached for one of the condoms on the floor.

"I'll help you, then," he said, holding his hand out for the condom.  "Let me."

And within a few quick yet seemingly endless seconds, Sherlock took John once more into his mouth before reluctantly rolling the condom over him, then giving a few strokes with his hand.  Of their own accord, John's eyes drifted closed and he stiffened his spine and his thighs as the sensations encompassed his body.  Feeling a sheen of sweat breaking out, John felt Sherlock's hand reach both around his erection and the other behind his bollocks, pressing with a spit-moistened fingertip, just barely probing.  The keening that came out of his mouth was only quiet due to the fact that his brain had still engaged that there was someone in the flat beneath them, but the physical release was strong and persistent and overwhelming.  And dangerously alive.

John eventually felt Sherlock's mouth over his own yet again, a heated gentle and relaxed kiss.  "You can let go now," the voice said into his ear, and he realised he'd had quite a grip on Sherlock's shirt sleeve (the thumb having either slipped free or been released).  There were starburst wrinkles on Sherlock's sleeve from John's sweaty clenched hand clutching it.  John was pretty sure Sherlock was rather fastidious about his non-wrinkled clothing and obvious attention to his appearance.

"God, sorry."  He pulled off the condom, binned it into the bag Sherlock held out for him, and straightened his clothing.  Then, he was able to meet Sherlock's eyes as they watched him.  

John felt rather self-conscious as Sherlock asked him, "You good?"

"Was that a question or an observation?"  John's speech had returned, then, and he smiled as he asked the question.

"Oh, both, I suppose."

"No complaints here.  You?"  

"Only that you're bossy," Sherlock said with an impish edge to his voice as he crossed to the window to open the drapes.  Light infused warmly into the room.

"Piss off."  John looked around again at the flat.  "Now, show me around and then I'm taking you out for dinner."

"What did I just say?   _Bossy_."

"And later, you're going to loan me your laptop."

"Ah yes, lab results.  Strictly for informational purposes, of course."  Sherlock approached a mirrored piece of wall art, leaned in to inspect his suture line for the first time.  "You do nice work, here.  Thank you."

John ran his fingers idly over the edge of a ceramic elephant resting on a shelf against the wall.  "It might interest you that an army officer also learns to take orders."  

"And defy them, too?"

"Not without repercussions."  John answered in an almost challenging manner, and thought perhaps, between the two of them there in Sherlock's sitting room, that the sexually charged undertones of the conversation were both inspiring and promising.

"I can hardly wait to test the truth of that statement."  He had already crossed the room, closer to John, and brought his hand up along John's chest.  His fingers sought out John's nipple, pushing firmly over his pectoral muscle and then pinching slightly as John arched into his touch.  The power struggle that had become apparent on the steps - although if John really thought about it, it had more likely started in the bloody waiting room at the clinic - blazed into flame and Sherlock fanned the fire with a heated look.  He smiled a very controlled smile and eased back from John, letting his fingers lift from John's puckering nipple as John's face gave away his unhappiness at the loss of touch.  "So, the flat.  There are two bedrooms ..."  

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: It's tricky to balance these two opposing facets of John Watson - the side that wants to be a bit reckless and embrace some risky behaviour and the side that is firmly grounded in safe, medical science. So he hints a bit at appropriate testing times that would allow for the detection of certain STI's such as HIV or Hep B/C. 
> 
> Not implying that either of them has any serious health condition or STI, but I did a bit of digging. HIV seroconversion is seldom as fast as 3 weeks, but 97% of infected patients will test positive by 3 months. Surface antigens to Hepatitis B and C infections may, on the average, show up in blood screenings at 4 weeks and up to 6 months, respectively. Testing for chlamydia or gonorrhea is either a urine test or by obtaining a swab, and are not mentioned in this story. But no worries, the most serious condition that either of these guys have is just a bit of sexual frustration.


	4. I Need to see Dr. Watson Immediately

"Dr. Watson, there's one more patient waiting.  Fever, sore throat."

John sighed as he accepted the clipboard from the nurse.  "Thank you."

"Temp for me was 37.6," she said with a tiredness that John completely understood.  Barely febrile, then, but certainly entitled to a visit.

Ten minutes later, a positive rapid strep throat culture and a prescription for a short course of antibiotics and John was definitely ready to end this day.  While he enjoyed being back to work, and the quick pace of the clinic, his shoulder was sore and his feet were tired.  He was dotting the last 'i' on his charts and crossing the last 't' when the nurse bade him goodbye and asked him to close up.  The daily report ended up filed in the binder outside the waiting room with the other records from the last five days since opening, and, turning off the light on his way, John exchanged his stethoscope for his coat, crossed the room in the now darkening early evening.  And then he noticed something out of place. 

Sherlock was waiting for him in one of the hard plastic chairs, his foot tapping the lino, and John's breath started to catch before he admonished himself to _steady on._ John lifted an eyebrow at him across the waiting room.

"We're closed."

"I have an urgent medical need."  The rough, gravelly edge to his voice left little doubt to what he was referring.

"An erection is not something for which you need medical attention."  

"I had some medical attention a few days ago, and I think that's what started this ... problem."

John finished fastening his coat.  "Take care of it yourself."  He watched as Sherlock stood, blue eyes sparkling with ... trouble.

Sherlock cleared his throat, taking on a new approach.  "I have it on good medical authority that facial sutures should be removed on the fourth or fifth day.  And _that_ is what brings me here.  To _you_."

The last time they'd been in the same room, it was in Sherlock's sitting room there on Baker Street, and Sherlock's mobile had chirruped annoyingly, interrupting John's tour of the flat before it had even gotten started.  Sherlock had, in a flurry of activity, been summoned urgently to the side of Greg Lestrade again.  This time, he'd explained hurriedly to John before flinging on his long coat, it was to apprehend the criminal they'd nearly caught earlier in the day.  It was the same knife-wielding attacker that had put the slice in Sherlock's cheekbone.  Apologetically, and a bit late with that sentiment, Sherlock had hastily scribbled down his mobile number and thrust it at John before scampering down the stairs and out the door.  "Call me," he'd said.  "And think about the flat - look around.  You don't mind seeing yourself out, do you?" he'd added.  And then he was gone.

John had pocketed the number, looking at it several times over the ensuing days, and decided it was truly a momentary lapse of good judgment on his part, and never called.  It had been, however, he recalled, a rather pleasant encounter.   _Satisfying._

"Clinic opens at 9 tomorrow.  Come in then and see the nurse."

Sherlock was not discouraged in the least by John's lack of engagement.  "I see you're still giving orders."

"And apparently you're still ignoring them."  Unable to completely hide it, there was the brief flicker of a smile that Sherlock acknowledged seeing with a quiet chuckle.  "When you return tomorrow, I'll make sure that you get copies of your lab results."

"Everything was negative then?"

John returned his gaze calmly.  "I couldn't say.  I don't have your chart in front of me."

"That's pure bollocks."  He was only a few steps away from John, now, and John successfully resisted the urge to back away from him.  "Of course you remember."

"To the best of my recollection, yes, it was all negative and non-reactive."

"That's more like it," Sherlock answered with a bit of a condescending edge to his voice.  Then, "Are you working tomorrow?"

"No, I am not."

"Good, then we can have a bit of a lie-in together."  The sparkle in Sherlock's eye was just begging and daring John to react to it, along with the verbal sparring.  "Think of the suture removal as foreplay."

John ignored the specifics of what Sherlock was saying.  "What part of 'we're closed' did you not understand?"

"I think it was the part a few days ago that started with you on your knees and ended with 'oh my god, like that'?"  He smiled then, a predatory grin.  "Ring any bells?"  John kept his mouth shut at that point as his inner debate raged.  "And I do recall that you were offering dinner, which never happened."

"You ran off."

"I had work to do, there's a difference."  Sherlock flicked the light back on.  "Suture removal kits are this way, right?" and he disappeared through the doorway.

John shrugged his coat off, sighing, and swallowed over his dry mouth as he followed.  Sherlock was pulling open drawers of the suture cart when John reached him and grabbed the kit he'd been searching for from the holder on the top.  Their eyes met and John knew almost immediately that he was going to have to resume some semblance of control here while he still could.  "Sit."

"Why don't we just bring it with us?"

" _Sit_ ," John said again, summoning the voice he'd cultivated back in his army days but even then rarely needed to use.

Sherlock lowered his tall frame into the chair John gestured at.

At his questioning silence, John continued.  "The lighting is much better here.  If we are apparently going to do this, we are going to do it right."  John washed his hands, pulled on procedure gloves, and waited for Sherlock to ease his arms out of his coat.  He positioned the procedure lamp appropriately, and perched on a stool as he prepared to get to work.  "Ready?"

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little bit just sort of _happened_ and I decided to let it stand on its own. Chapter 5 just ties up a few loose ends and is nearly finished.
> 
> Let me know if I missed anything.


	5. Devilish and Mischievous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where all is revealed. Hearts and flowers, puppies and sunshine. Oh, and smut.
> 
> A/N: Actually, no literal hearts, no actual flowers, definitely no puppies, and as for sunshine, well, sure I suppose there might be some of that. But smut? You are warned there might be a bit of that.

"Of course I'm ready."

The low voice of desire thrummed, and John's eyes darkened in anticipation as he watched Sherlock, who sat calmly just waiting and observing.  There was less restless agitation at the moment, now that John had directed him to the chair, but John didn't know how long that would last.  He was both optimistic enough to hope at least long enough to get at the sutures and realistic enough to know that it was unlikely.  Calm, yes, but perhaps the calm before the storm.

"Looks like it's healing up pretty well.  Is it bothering you much?"  He touched the angle of Sherlock's jaw with gloved fingertips and adjusted the angle of his jaw under the light so he could see that the edges were well approximated and beginning to show normal epithelial granulation.  There was just the faintest beginnings of stubble along Sherlock's jaw, probably had shaved early in the day, then.  John tried not to stare at the bow of Sherlock's upper lip at the philtrum, recalling specifics about his mouth - god that had been so hot - and feeling the faintest attraction of chemistry in the room.  Their proximity was not only unavoidable, it was refreshingly exciting after the routine-ness of the day in the clinic.

"No.  Just itchy now."  He let a smile hint at his expression, and said, "If you really want me to compliment your work, I'll do it, I suppose."

"I don't especially need to be affirmed.  But I'm glad for your sake we did the sutures, as I don't think you'll have too much of a scar."  

"I don't particularly care if there had been a scar."

"You should, it would be a shame to ..."  and John gestured at his face, then stopped, as it occurred to him that the compliment was going to sound shallow.  "... have a big scar there on your face."  For as much as John had tried to forget, move on, now that they were in the same room breathing the same air, it was next to impossible.  The man seated right in front of him was bloody attractive.  "Let's get these out, then."  And John smiled, exhaling lightly as their eyes connected in the privacy of the exam room.  He held contact there a moment, then saw Sherlock's focus directed to the bounding carotid pulse at his neck, and John knew his heart was pounding, figured he'd just been found out.  He felt the slightest twinge of colour at his neck, the heat of his face, stirrings elsewhere.  Sherlock, he could tell just by his lopsided smirk, saw it all.

Delightful crinkles at the edges of Sherlock's eyes and mouth appeared then, and John couldn't help biting his lower lip as he lifted both hands toward the suture line on Sherlock's cheek.  "I noticed your cane..." Sherlock began.

Quickly, just as John was reaching for the first stitch, he shushed him.  "Rather not have a moving target, if you please," he said gently.  He was close to Sherlock, not just with his hands, but the rest of him as well, his leg resting warmly on the outside of Sherlock's, just as a matter of necessity.  "Yes, my cane seems to have found a new home," and he lifted the stitch up, slid the tiny sharp tip of the scissors underneath, snipped, "at my bedsit in the corner."  He removed a few more stitches then felt Sherlock's leg pressing just slightly into his own, an unnecessary reminder of his presence, of body heat, a nudging seeking counter-pressure.  

John stopped a moment, waited for Sherlock to look at him, said, "I'm well aware that you're here, you know.  You don't have to call attention to that fact."

"Just seeing how high I can turn up the heat.  How much you can take before your hands start to shake."

With great enjoyment, Sherlock kept his eyes steady on John's face and his hand cautiously, warmly, tentatively came to rest on the top of John's leg right by his own.  Long fingers pressed down over the top of his thigh with the hint of traveling upward.

"I don't recommend that."  There was something of a pleading look in John's expression that Sherlock took note of, and as the seconds ticked by, John glanced up to the suture line, added quietly and confidently, " _yet_."  Sherlock, smiling, then let his fingers twitch slightly in a non-verbal agreement and then removed his hand from John's thigh.

Pressing on, John returned his attention to the task at hand.  "I should have mentioned when you were here before," and his eyes flicked to Sherlock's as he realised he could have alluded to Sherlock's flat, and he grasped another stitch, "that this is going to need sunblock at least six months to minimise discolouration," and he snipped then set aside the suture.  A gauze on the tray now held a few of them, and he picked up another against Sherlock's face.  "I probably have a few samples here in the clinic if you don't have any" and he cut then set another tiny string on the dressing "although with your fair skin, I should hope you have..."

Sherlock's hand came up then, long fingers wrapping around the hand holding the tweezers.  His movement had been carefully orchestrated and timed for safety.  "John."  And the way his name came forth in a breath, a caress, the mist of a steaming mug of tea, wrapping and enveloping and embracing in a mere spoken word.  And yet so much more than that.  It was intimacy, and tension, and a request.

He worked very hard not to audibly gulp a swallow down over his dry mouth.  "Just a couple more and we'll be..."

"Just. _Stop it_."  The words came out in a whisper.

John's brow creased and his head tilted to the side, questioning.  "What are you on about?"

"You know exactly what I'm on about.  You realise I could have done this at home in front of a mirror."  Sherlock tried hard to keep the slight snicker out of his voice.  John raised an eyebrow in challenge, and Sherlock amended, "Probably."

"So why are you here?"

"I should think that is as obvious as why your heart is racing and your pupils are a bit dilated and your skin is tingling."  His eyes dropped to John's neck again, confirming, settled on his mouth before raising to John's steady gaze again.  "I do appreciate that there is no tremor in your hand despite my efforts."

"You can't know for sure that my skin is tingling."  He smiled a bit of a shy smile before relegating the sparkle to just his eyes as he looked the short distance into his face.  He lowered his tone.  "Although you know damned well that it is."

"I guessed."  Sherlock watched, licked his lips together probably without realising it, and John's mouth was dry again.  "Mine is, too, so it might as well be mutual."

John was moderately frozen in place, with Sherlock's hand holding one of his aloft and the other poised a few centimetres from his cheekbone holding small scissors.  "I'll take you to dinner when we're done."  An eye-roll and large exhaled sigh combination happened then, both of great magnitude, and had John perplexed.  " _What_?"

"God, do you _ever_ stop giving orders?"

He cleared his throat, picked up a suture again, carefully making sure Sherlock was paying attention and holding still.  "Please, Sherlock, will you allow me the _pleasure_ of your company for dinner when we're done here?"

Holding up a finger to ensure he wasn't about to receive a new slice to the face from the implements in John's skilled hands, he waited for John to pause and then answered, "As I said to you the other day, we are _far from done_ here.  And to answer your earlier question, _that_ is why I am here:  unfinished business."

John snipped, laid aside, gripped the next stitch.  "I love it when you evade the question.  If you have ever wondered why anyone gives you orders, look no farther, because nothing else is all that effective."  John recalled Sherlock completely ignoring Greg Lestrade in the waiting room until he was bloody ordered to comply.  "Answer the question."  As they became aware that John had issued yet another order, they both chuckled a bit, and John continued, "Answer the question, if you would,  _please_."

There was an immediate sense of impending amusement as Sherlock clearly debated silently how to respond.  "I get to pick the place."

"May I remind you, _please_ , that I am holding sharp objects in close proximity to very sensitive skin," and with that John pointed the scissors vaguely downward to the collar of Sherlock's dress shirt.

"Yes."

"Good man."  There was then silent maneuvering of sutures then, clicking of scissors, as the last stitch was lifted, tugged free of skin so that the scissors could slide underneath.  "You did mean, yes to dinner?"

"And dessert."  The grin on Sherlock's face was both charming and alarming.

Rapidly approaching footsteps sounded in the hall as John removed the final string, and a deep voice called out, "Watson, you still here?"  Mike appeared at the doorway, gave a slight nod to the patient in acknowledgement, then faced John.

"Just finishing up, yeah."  It was all John could do not to back off quickly as if caught red-handed.  He certainly didn't want to give the impression of impropriety.  To Sherlock, John said, "All set," and he slid the wheeled stool a half-stride back, setting both scissors and tweezers down on the work tray, breathing deeply and hoping they both appeared casual enough.

Mike was nonplussed, zipped his jacket.  "Want to grab a bite somewhere?  I'm heading out."

"No, but thanks.  I already have plans."

"Suit yourself."  Mike was already turning, and waved a hand upward in a dismissive farewell as he strode purposefully out of the clinic.

John slid the stool back to where he'd been, then, closer to Sherlock, and the men locked eyes again.  "Plans?"

"Problem?" John raised a brow, puzzled at the way Sherlock had bristled at that.  "I'll call him back, if you want, and tell him what I really have in mind tonight."   They met eyes briefly before laughter came out, a quiet dissipation of nervous anticipation.  His affect brightened then, the smile coming easily to his face as he considered when and where he wanted to touch Sherlock; the white shoulder angel reminded him that he was still in the office, at his place of employment.  "Provided, of course, that I remember to ask nicely, obtain consent, and stop ordering you around."

"Good man," Sherlock came back at him, echoing his words but making them somehow both sincere and provocative.  "And, no, of course don't tell him anything; it's none of his concern."

John leaned across the tray, grabbed the small packet of antibiotic ointment he'd set there, opened it, daubed a smear across the well-healing and now suture-less wound on Sherlock's face.  Stripping off his gloves and extinguishing the procedure light, he responded, "It almost was going to be his concern, because if he'd been here just a few minutes later, he might have interrupted _this_ ," and he brought his face close to Sherlock's, his lips brushing lightly against Sherlock's chin, nipping lightly, moving to his jaw and then full-on to his lips.  Pulling away, then, firmly, he stood.  "We should probably leave."  Both were well aware of the nearly palpable frustration, of the exaggerated physical awareness from appearance to even breathing, of the position close enough to touch but cautious enough at the moment to realise they needed to be careful.

Sherlock rose from his chair as well.  "Yes."  He waited while John quickly tidied up the tray, binning what he'd used, and they were soon once more in the waiting room.  "Indian food okay?  Tandoori Palace has very good samosas."

"Sounds wonderful."  They stretched into jackets and John locked the door behind them with his keys.  "Of course, and we are both well aware that they only have take-away."  John counted himself fortunate that he was on to Sherlock's antics.

Sherlock's smile turned devilishly mischievous, and he crooned, "Oh, yes, that's right.  Well, I guess we'll just have to bring it with us.  You never did get the tour of your new flat."  Clearly, he was deceiving no one with his statements.

"You're more clever than that.  You could have just asked me."  The teasing laughter came easily as they conversed along the way to the eatery.  John was reminded of his therapists words - _seize the day_ \- along the way and noted the easy way they fell into step despite the difference in stature.  Finally, he brought the topic back round to the flat.  "I guess a tour of the flat would be nice."

"I had said you could look around, last week, didn't you see it then?"

"Only long enough to know that you don't actually have handcuffs in the table by your bed."

"Quite right, I keep them in the top of the closet."  John didn't doubt for a second that he had at least one pair stashed somewhere.  Hopefully he also had a _key_.

The takeaway was quickly ready, and before long the flat at Baker Street was pleasantly smelling of delicious Indian food.  John trailed Sherlock toward the kitchen and helped dish plates, and they perched at the rather cluttered kitchen table to eat.  Sherlock ate some, but pushed his plate back long before John was done, and so while John finished - still amidst lively discussion and slightly charged sexual banter - Sherlock poked a finger idly into the pile of mail there on the table.

"What is this?" he asked, puzzled, pushing a letter askew out of the pile so John could see it.

It was an envelope with clinic return address, and John was already smiling.  "Addressed to you.  Maybe it's a bill for services rendered?" he teased.

In reality, it was copies of Sherlock's lab work.  Attached to it was John's business card.  Sherlock smiled a bit then.  "I thought you fussed at me that I should get copies from the nurse in the morning?"

"Turn the card over."

On the back, John had written.  "Interested in more than the flat.  Your move," and his mobile number was scrawled underneath.

Sherlock grabbed his mobile from his pocket.  There was quick, furious texting, and then a pause.  John's mobile buzzed.   ** _Quite interested in moving this to the bedroom_**

Two men stood then, plates forgotten, there by the table.  Each closed the gap, hands pressing, stroking, mouths meeting with an interested fierceness and spiraling, building, escalating heat.

And the bedroom was quickly inhabited by two very virile and very horny and very physical men in search of imminent orgasm.  This was not the time for a gentle flirting, or a slow build.  The burning had started across the triage desk at the clinic, the back room, threatening to consume them both in Sherlock's flat, and now John squelched his rational medically-driven and somewhat moral inhibitions as he shucked jacket, shirt, and - _Carpe diem, indeed_ \- belt.  Sherlock turned his attention full on to John and watched, his eyes blazing in appreciation as he caught glimpse of the muscled upper body, previously hidden under button-front shirt.  Then the healing wound was visible, and he ceased his own undressing efforts completely, distracted, to approach and touch the puckered wound edges with reverent, light fingers.

"Does this still hurt?"  The mostly-healed wound was dark pink with white granulating tissue along the borders.  "Looks fairly recent."

John shook his head, oddly numb, much like the altered sensation of his GSW.  "Couple of months."  He observed Sherlock paying close attention, continued, whispered lightly, "You can touch all you want", and he spread his arms in an offering of surrender.  Sherlock's hand immediately dropped from John's chest to his trousers, lower, pressing in against the almost fully hard erection.  John groaned, eyes closing, and he pressed into the long fingers stroking through zippered fabric.  Sherlock dropped to a knee, unzipped and then slid pants and trousers down together, just far enough to be out of the way.  He watched John's face, studying John's responses, as he swallowed the length immediately, and when the gasp was not quite what he'd hoped for, he pulled off entirely.  John's erection swelled to fully turgid, and he stared as Sherlock began a slower tasting of his cock, starting by wrapping a clever tongue around the tip, swirling the head, suckling lightly over the coronal ridge.  He couldn't help the breathy gasp and fine tremor across his back.  _This_ was the reaction that Sherlock wanted.  John relaxed into his touch, chest out, eyes dark, a throaty growl.  He licked and stroked by degrees, lingering when John moaned or breathed differently, savoring the heated reactions and feeling the throbbing in his mouth.  He brought his hand up, working it between the heat of John's legs, cupping scrotum and teasing perineum.  The moan John let out then brought Sherlock to a halt, and he gently pulled off completely.

"Strip," he ordered kindly, and they shared a smile at the command given not from John.  Sherlock reached to remove the rest of his own clothing, tossing it where it fell, and waiting as John quickly did the same and then the bed was under them.  Sherlock waited as John spread his legs, the newness of being inspected bringing a slight flush to his face.  He smiled then as Sherlock returned to between John's thighs, used his mouth to draw John's cock inside that moist hotness, and brought his hand to that very spot that has elicited the major groan a few minutes previously.  Wordlessly, John's eyes drifted closed, sensations becoming all there were as he felt Sherlock's fingers holding, squeezing, teasing his entrance.  A few minutes later, John summoned his self-control and pushed Sherlock away, opening his eyes as he pulled back.

"Too close.  I don't want to come yet."

Sherlock's mouth was slightly swollen, his lips full and enticing from being full of John, and he brushed his hand across his chin to remove the moistness there.  "What do you want then?"

The moment was charged as they stared.  "I want you inside me.  And lube.  Lots and lots of lube."  John eased their faces together again, a commitment of sorts to exploring each other.  "And a request to be gentle, it's been rather a long time."

"I won't hurt you.  And when it's my turn, same request back at you, same reason."

The bottle of lube ended up in Sherlock's hand, and John flinched a bit in nervousness at the cool and unfamiliar and slightly uncomfortable sensations, at first.  But Sherlock's fingers were long and careful, and when John finally gasped, "Now, God, just do it, I'm ready."  Sherlock hesitated just long enough for John to amend, "Sorry, just, please, now.  I want..."

Sherlock pressed in, concerned at the sharp intake of breath from John at the intrusion, and waited until he felt John's tight muscles relax around him and John breathed a quiet, "I'm ok, I'm good now," before moving.  It didn't take long, and Sherlock's hand reached down between them, holding and stroking awkwardly as he thrust, until there was quivering, and breathlessness, and quiet keening moans, and Sherlock felt John's pulsations around him and between them, and shortly after, his own orgasm built, crested, throbbed, and eventually eased.  The tension dissipated, being replaced instead by a comfortable, warm languor.  They drew apart only far enough to each have mattress space, but John's arm rested on Sherlock's elbow, while Sherlock's toes were tucked under John's calf.  And in that quiet, easy place of satisfied companionship, both eventually nodded off.

++

 The phone rang in the urgent care clinic, and the receptionist juggled the phone as several lines flashed at once.  John had just finished with another patient, returned to select the next one waiting in line.  "Just a moment, please hold," he heard the receptionist say, and then, "Dr. Watson, line 4 is for you, medical question," and she snagged the next call, answering it efficiently.  John sighed as considered the rudeness of the callers who put themselves somehow at the head of the line in front of those who were physically present and had already been waiting.  There were times, he thought he should approach Mike about the need to hire more staff, that time was too short for the care needed.  Time may indeed have been in short supply, but of patients, well, they had plenty of those.

He lifted the handset.  "Urgent care, this is Dr. Watson."

"John."  He knew instantly the voice at the other end of the line, and could see a few of the patients waiting watching him with a degree of annoyance as they waited. 

"May I help you?"

There was a soft chuckle at the other end of the line, and John could feel the slightest flush over his chest.  "Over the phone?  I've never tried it that way, but I'd be amenable."

"I see."

"This might not be the best location for you, however."  The chuckle happened again, and the voice continued.  "I would really love to press up against you, pinch those sensitive nubs, and then pull your zipper down with my teeth.  I wonder if you can already feel my breath warm against you?"  There was a throaty laugh, and then, "You getting hard yet?"

"Yes, that is correct, we don't schedule appointments, but I can transfer your call to the regular surgery.  Please hold."

"Oh no you don't," he said quickly.  "You might want to wrap that long white coat around you a bit more, before someone might see."

"You are welcome to walk in, there is no appointment required."  John paused to glance at the number of clipboards representing patients in line, and he scanned the waiting room, calculating number of patients times typical visit length - and as the waiting room watched him with some sort of mounting frustration, he noticed something.  Out the front of the urgent care clinic, John caught a glimpse of a long coat in motion, the man wearing it also holding a mobile phone as he walked.  There was a deerstalker hat involved, overtop brown curls, and as John looked further, Sherlock's eyes met his and the man on the kerb winked, kept walking although a bit more slowly.

"I think I'm intrigued by the thought of doing this over the phone.  Let's start with you following some orders from me this time --"

His voice seemed to catch as he interrupted Sherlock's creativity, "Approximate wait time is going to be about an hour, if you choose to come in right now."

"Oh, I am definitely choosing to _come now_.  Better free up your schedule for me."

John considered the waiting room full of people who were not exactly paying attention, but certainly in earshot.  "That's not how it works.  If this is a more urgent need, I would suggest that you seek care at the A&E across town."

Slight hesitation, and then John heard, "Okay.  You think maybe I can convince them to put dermabond on my face?"

"Please hold," John said into the phone and pressed the hold key, saying to the nurse there, "I'll take the next patient, then, in just a moment.  Taking this call in the office."  She nodded, collected the next patient, and John slid into the small office, picked up the call again.  "You'd better be bluffing, Sherlock."

"If I had a real facial wound," and John relaxed some when he realized Sherlock had been kidding, "would you see me next?  Maybe behind closed doors, do you think you could be quiet?  I'll bet you could, and it would be wonderfully hot and quick and messy."

"Just stop it now.  I have a room full of people --"

"Yes, I can see them, but not you anymore.  No one in that lobby looks particularly ill."

"-- and you are keeping me from what I need to do."

"Just wanted to make sure you missed me.  How hard are you?"

"Very."  John breathed out a quick breath, laughing.  "I really do have to get back to work.  See you at home?"

"Fine."  There was a slightly frustrated huff, and Sherlock answered, "I'll be waiting.  Perhaps in handcuffs."

And the line disconnected before John muttered a quiet, " _Insatiable.  Oh god_!"

 ~ finis ~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And as always, please let me know if I missed anything!
> 
> It's been hard to reconcile the many facets of John Watson. He is, at times, reckless, a little angry, impulsive, competent physician, safe, solid, reasonable, dependable, but an adrenaline junkie as well. I hope it has been a - *ahem* - satisfying foray into his complicated character!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are like the extra icing flower on the bakery cake when the edges are just slightly crunchy - delicious and meant to be savored. Thanks for reading, and I look forward to sharing this adventure with you all.


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